Chronicle VIII-A Knock at the Door

The Kings Arms alehouse had long faded behind him, but the danger of the night still followed John Hargreaves across the muddy Yorkshire lanes.

The winnings were gone.

So too were the men who had struck him down beside the road and left him bleeding beneath the cold morning mist.

Most folk would have passed by and thanked God it was not their burden to carry.

Others would have feared bringing a wounded stranger through the cattle door and into the fragile safety of their home.

But the Rushworth family had done otherwise.

They had given him warmth, ale, and a place beside the hearth while the pain slowly drained from his battered body.

Yet kindness carried its own dangers in seventeenth-century Yorkshire.

Because John Hargreaves carried more than a head wound back into Haworth.

He carried secrets.

Secrets of hidden faith, quiet persecution, and the dangerous silence required of Catholic families living beneath the rule of the Crown.

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The cottage door stood open.

John stepped inside and closed it quietly behind him.

The warmth of the dying fire reached him at once, carrying the smell of last night's ashes and the morning pottage.

Only then did he notice the dried vomit staining the front of his tunic.

His hose were stiff with mud, his limbs ached from the cold, and every heartbeat sent pain pulsing through the wound beneath the linen bandage.

She glanced at her husband's bare back and smiled at his pale skin and knobbly knees.

‘Oh, there you are ‘usband, Agnes was worried about you. Where have you been? Up to no good I suppose,’ said his wife sarcastically.

‘Careful wife, I don’t need cheek this mornin’ my head is split,’ as John turned to show her the back of his head.

‘Goodness John, what have you done?’ asked his wife as she hurried to the kitchen and took a wet cloth to the back of John’s head slowly cleaning it.

John grimaced in pain. ‘My God wife, do you want ta open it up again? You don’t know what’ll come spilling out if you do.’

"I warned thee. I feared this day would come. "

‘No wife, it was footpads. They must have known that I had a purse full of winnings. I went to the Kings Arms for an ale. There were rat-baiting in the basement, so I wagered a shillin’ or two and won.’

‘Sounds like you won too much,’ said his wife, lifting his tunic from the floor noticing the stain.

She looked at him curiously. ‘And what may I pray have happened to the winnings?’

‘Sorry wife, they are long gone. I woke up in a stranger’s house with an empty money purse. I was found in a ditch on their hide and they took me home ta sleep off the wound,’ he said apologetically, remembering the hospitality the Rushworth’s had shown him.

‘I’d say you were sleeping off more than the wound ‘n besides, did you not think it might have been them that took the winnings?’

John condemned her accusation, ‘No wife, it wasn’t them. I was assaulted on the way home. If it wasn’t for young Rushworth ‘n his family, who knows what my fate would have been. They tended my wound, laid me beside the fire, let me sleep, and this morning fed me pottage with ale to wash it down. They are kind folk like us, but not of the faith.’

Margaret looked at him curiously. ‘My goodness, now I’ve ‘eard everything!’

John turned to her. ‘They were different, kind and generous. The woman had two handsome lads, William and her eldest Thomas, about Agnes’ age.

‘They didn’t know I was of the faith, but I get the feeling that it wouldn’t have mattered.’

‘Husband you don’t know that. We must be careful; I don’t want our Agnes to go through all that again. We must be silent and keep our prayers to ourselves.

She sat down, put her face in her hands and sobbed.

John put his hand on Margaret’s shoulder. ‘It’s alright wife, nobody will ever find us and I will continue to pay the fine for not attending church, but I refuse ta pray to a false God and that’s that! Come now wipe yer eyes and let’s talk no more about it.’

Margaret slowly nodded and dried her tears with the edge of her apron, though the fear remained fixed behind her eyes. The fire crackled softly while the morning wind hissed beneath the door.

John glanced towards the loft where Agnes moved quietly above them.

"She need never know about last night."

Then came the sound.

Three heavy knocks.

John and Margaret froze.

Agnes stopped moving upstairs.

Another knock followed.

Slower this time.

Deliberate.

John turned toward the door while Margaret instinctively clutched the small wooden cross hidden beneath her dress.

Nobody ever knocked like that unless they brought trouble.

John moved carefully toward the door, his aching head pounding with every step. He placed his hand upon the latch but hesitated.